


What's It Need a Title For?

by PostcardsfromTheoryland



Series: The Little Things Are Infinitely the Most Important [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Parentlock, and some angst, very very minor mention of child abuse if you look hard enough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 17:36:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/864754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PostcardsfromTheoryland/pseuds/PostcardsfromTheoryland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: family ficlet, John, Sherlock and Hamish (kid Hamish) go to a restaurant. Make it funny/cute. Hamish is five-and-a-half: this is important.</p>
<p>The funny/cute aspect got away from me a bit, as did the restaurant. Whoops.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's It Need a Title For?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meggs (SweetieOolong)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetieOolong/gifts).



John all but collapsed into the window seat at their usual table, exhausted at the end of a case, while Sherlock slipped gracefully beside him a second later. Billy had already delivered the customary romantic candle, probably informing the kitchen to prepare their usual orders on the way. Did that kid have some kind of sixth sense when it came to them? He was sure, in all the nonstop running around between St. Bart’s and the Yard they’d done in the past three days, that Sherlock didn’t have a chance to sneakily make a reservation this time. That, and he’d been forced to confiscate the detective’s mobile as punishment after Sherlock made not one, but two of the new interns cry. Honestly, it had to be a record.

“You stopped complaining,” the man at his side murmured, snapping John out of his train of thoughts.

“About the interns?” You could never be sure, with Sherlock, whether he was reading your mind or continuing a conversation from last week.

“About the candle,” came the response, along with a vague wave of Sherlock’s hand. “Thought you weren’t my date.” John chuckled, leaning his head back against the seat.

“It’s been nearly eight years, and they still put the bloody thing out. I’m not going to convince them at this point.” He looked up at Hamish, still chatting animatedly with Angelo. Probably about the fact that they had let him see an actual dead body this time. Strangled, at least, so it wasn’t too gruesome. “The addition of a five-year-old son doesn’t seem to help my appearance of heterosexuality, either.”

“I’m five-and-a-half, Da!” Hamish shrieked from across the room, abandoning Angelo in favor of attempting to tackle John. Sherlock snapped to life and caught the boy deftly around the middle before settling him between the two of them. He squirmed a bit, getting comfortable, before peering up at John. “Can I have gelato?” he pleaded, brown eyes suddenly huge and bottom lip quivering.

“You haven’t even had dinner yet,” John protested.

“I promise I’ll eat all my spaghetti. But Angie says they have chocolate today. Can I?” God, he was too tired to handle a hyperactive Hamish tonight.

“Ask your father.” The second the words had left his mouth, he knew it was the wrong thing to say. Regardless, the boy grabbed at Sherlock’s arm, probably startling the man away from his Mind Taj Mahal or whatever it had grown to these days, and repeated the question.

“Chocolate gelato?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes, fine.”

“Sherlock!” The man in question looked up at him, Hamish practically beaming in between them.

“What? I don’t see a problem with the order in which he eats two different forms of carbohydrates. It’s not as if the human body will somehow process food in a different manner simply because society has deemed it necessary to ingest pasta before frozen dairy products.”

“B’sides, Mrs. Hudson says that I need more cal..calsum, and I know ice cream has that,” Hamish added helpfully, swinging his legs under the table as Sherlock mumbled the correct pronunciation.

“That is really not the point…” John scrubbed a hand over his face. Alright, then, new tactic. “Sherlock, I’ll give you back your phone if you take my side.” The detective gave him a smirk and made a show of taking the mobile out of his inside coat pocket with a flourish.

“There goes your bargaining chip.” John only groaned and massaged his temples. Two five-year-olds. He was raising two of them.

“How did you even..?”

“He took it back when you were arguing with Uncle Greg about football,” Hamish provided, temporarily distracted with rearranging the cutlery. Sherlock’s smirk changed shape, becoming the fond smile he saved for the moments he found Hamish exceptionally clever. Fortunately, the arrival of their entrees derailed any chance for their son to actually make good on his craving. Unfortunately, the arrival of their entrees, specifically Hamish’s spaghetti, also prompted a reiteration of some things Molly had told the boy yesterday about entrails. Really, he was going to need to have a talk with that woman. She was almost as bad as Sherlock when it came to inappropriate conversations. And since said detective now seemed engrossed in reading his emails and text messages, it was up to John to steer the boy back to more conventional meal-time topics. Much easier said than done. At least both Sherlock and Hamish were eating, for once. He’d accept that as a partial success. After three attempts to lead his thoughts in another direction, John gave up and just listened to Hamish’s idle chatter, adding the appropriate nods and interested exclamations in the correct places. Eventually, Hamish decided that Sherlock was missing out on all the fun, tugging on his father's free hand and continuing his explanation.

“And then Molly said that bruises were really important to find out how he died!”

“Yes, Hamish. I was there, as well, if you’ll recall,” he intoned, eyes still fixed on the mobile. John watched Hamish’s gaze slip back down to his food as he executed a near perfect Sherlockian pout, and sighed. That wouldn’t do. Careful to avoid jostling Hamish, John reached over their son’s head to give Sherlock a not-so-gentle nudge in the shoulder. The man turned sharply, his expression a clearly annoyed question. John raised an eyebrow in response and tilted his head down at Hamish, who was now quietly pushing noodles around his plate. Sherlock’s eyes widened and he managed to look a bit guilty before actually putting his phone away. “And what could be discerned from the bruises?” Their son looked up at him again, brow furrowed as he tried to find an answer. When none were forthcoming, Sherlock switched tactics. “What did you observe about the bruise you incurred from your misguided attempt to jump from the coffee table to the sofa?” That got the desired effect.

“Well, it started off just hurting, but then it got really big and first it was red and then purple and then it turned into a kind of vomitty color when it got smaller again.”

“And that tells us…?”

“It…tells us how…long it’s been? ‘Cause of the color?” he questioned.

“And?” he prompted. Hamish bit his lip in thought.

“And…maybe what did it? Because…mine was really big, but it got smaller at the same time it was changing color! So, if it’s still small but reddish purpley then it was probably made by something small!” Sherlock gave a single nod in response.

“Good.” And then, after a moment: “I think that merits two scoops of gelato.” John was tempted to slam his head against the table. It would be impossible to put Hamish to bed tonight. He opened his mouth to scold Sherlock, but stopped short when he saw how pleased their son looked. Fine.

But Sherlock was going to be in charge of getting Hamish to sleep.

* * *

John snapped awake, blearily looking at his computer screen. The blog post wasn’t finished yet, but apparently it would need to wait until the morning. He glanced up at the clock and realized that Sherlock had put Hamish to bed nearly an hour ago and never came back downstairs. Idiot had probably fallen asleep on the floor or something equally as annoying. Which meant he would now somehow need to wake one five-year-old without disturbing the other.

Bugger.

As quietly as he could, he crept up the staircase and nudged Hamish’s door open. Sherlock was exactly where John predicted he would be, but, oddly enough, he wasn’t asleep. He was seated on the floor, knees drawn up to his chest and arms wrapped around them, staring intently at their son.

What?

John approached and held out a hand, surprised when Sherlock accepted it without hesitation and let himself be ushered downstairs and onto the couch. John sat down next to him, briefly debating the merits of tea at this hour before Sherlock interrupted his thoughts.

“Neither of us should be having caffeine this late at night.”

“Never stopped us before.” Regardless, Sherlock was right. John was still exhausted and even the unstoppable Sherlock Holmes was beginning to show signs of fatigue. They weren’t as young as they used to be and they both needed to go to sleep. Still…“What was that about, then? Did you just happen to decide Hamish’s floor would make a good place to think?” Sherlock scoffed at him, turning away slightly.

“I am Hamish’s father, but you are “Da.” It’s…upsetting to me.” John looked up at him in surprise.

“I thought that’s what we agreed to? So it wouldn’t be confusing…”

“Not what I meant.” Sherlock fell silent again, staring blankly into the kitchen. John normally tried not to pry, but it seemed now was as good a time as any, with Hamish safely ensconced upstairs, for them to discuss this in private.

“Then what did you mean? Because I’m honestly not seeing much of a problem.” It was several minutes before he got a response.

“You are not any biological relation to him. Without a connection to me, there would be nothing between the two of you. And yet, you are the one he trusts, the one he goes to with problems, the first one he calls when he finds a word he doesn’t understand or wakes up from a bad dream or gets hurt.” John blinked at him, trying to comprehend. Was Sherlock actually jealous of his relationship with Hamish?

“Sherlock, I…I’m sorry, I never meant to –”

“Exactly,” he interrupted. “You didn’t mean to. I told you I couldn’t raise Hamish on my own and you told me I was daft for thinking you would let me. It was nearly immediate. You became the perfect parent _without even trying_. Which is good, all things considered, because I seem to be a shite father.” John started at the unusual use of language.

“Sherlock, what?” He let the question hang in the air, hoping Sherlock would give him some kind of explanation. It was a further ten minutes before he responded.

“He thinks I am not proud of him.”

“Are you?” The shocked expression Sherlock gave him would have been amusing in any other circumstance.

“Of course I am!” Sherlock put his head into his hands, muffling his next sentence. “Even you think I’m not!” John found himself wishing they were having this little heart-to-heart at a time when he was more awake and coherent. He’d have to take the blunt approach.

“I think, um, your own childhood might –”

“If you are about to reiterate the conversation involving how you feel about my father’s particular parenting style, let me remind you that it is unnecessary.”

“Yeah, alright, if you’d let me finish?” Sherlock moved his hands enough to let John see him glaring, and then huffed. “What I was going to say, before someone rudely interrupted me, is that I know you’re proud of him.” Sherlock’s hands fell away completely and he looked up at the doctor with a confused and touchingly hopeful expression. “Your problem is that you don’t have a clue how to tell him that.” Sherlock groaned, gripping at his hair.

“It comes so naturally for you, so easily.” He turned to bury his face in between John’s shoulder and the back of the couch. “I can barely understand my own emotions. How do I handle his? How do I tell him that I think he’s the smartest child I’ve ever seen and that he is cleverer than most of Scotland Yard and that I enjoy it when he takes an interest in my experiments, at least the ones not liable to explode, and that even if he weren’t intelligent I would still be proud of him because _he is my son_!” Sherlock’s voice actually cracked on the last word, but John was saved from responding by a small whimper at the stairs.

“Really?” Sherlock flinched and turned so sharply that John had to grab his arm to keep him from falling off the couch.

“God, yes, really, Hamish. Of course, of course, yes.” Their son, eyes bleary and hair mussed from sleep, seemed to deliberate several seconds before he padded over to the couch and crawled into Sherlock’s lap. “I’m sorry, that I’m not good with…these things,” Sherlock continued, “but I…yes. Yes, I’m proud of you. I’m always proud of you.”

“Even though I’m not good with d’uctions?”

“Again, you put most of the police officers to shame. Besides, you’re only five. Plenty of time yet to learn.”

“M’five-and-a-half.” Sherlock chuckled, resting his cheek against Hamish’s head.

“Of course. My mistake.” A beat. Then: “You know I love you, as well?” Hamish nodded groggily against Sherlock’s chest.

“Course. You’re Father.”

“Do you ever…I mean, if you wanted to call me something less formal…” Hamish blinked up at him, confused.

“Why? ‘S what you are.” Sherlock shrugged. Couldn’t argue with that logic.

John decided to give them a moment and stood up, ruffling both of their messy curls (and earning himself nearly twin scowls) on his way to the washroom. He dragged out his nighttime routine as much as possible to give them a bit of privacy, but eventually his exhaustion won out. When he returned, he couldn’t help the grin that made it onto his face. Sherlock was sprawled out on the couch, feet hanging over one of the armrests, clutching Hamish snuggly against his chest. Asleep, both of them. He should probably wake them up. Sherlock would be testy after wrinkling his ridiculously expensive suit, and they had finally managed to associate Hamish’s bedroom with sleep.

He really ought to wake them.

But then he would need to get both of his five-year-olds back to sleep. And who knew how long that would take. He retrieved the afghan Mrs. Hudson had knitted from its place in the hall cupboard and draped it over the pair of them. Miraculously, neither stirred. John took that as a good sign as he finally shuffled into the bedroom for his own much-needed sleep. They would be just fine.


End file.
